Did he feel that pull, too?
How could she even ask him without sounding more than a little odd?
Her eyes traveled across the strong planes of his countenance, the dark brows, his dark eyes, that ridiculously straight nose and those beautifully molded lips, the firm chin and the strong column of his throat: and she realized with a painful sense of shock that she had come to care for him.
There was more—so much more—to Gabriel than what he so often presented to the world. She had gotten glimpses, tantalizing glimpses, of his humor, kindness, vulnerability, passion.
But it was like standing at the gates to a magnificent castle. One could peer through the bars, view the tiniest bits of the pleasures within, but one could never, ever gain entrance.
Allowing herself to care for Gabriel Penhallow would be condemning herself to a lifetime of excruciating deprivation.
Crumbs at a feast.
A sham marriage, a sham life. All show, without substance, she’d be a player on a stage, saying her lines, gesturing as if from a script. And soon enough would come the shadows, the emptiness, and she’d end up dying a little every day, until, sooner or later, she would be an empty husk, surrounded by all her magnificent things.
Her soul, her spirit, seemed to cringe away from the idea.
She simply couldn’t do it.
That life wasn’t enough.
It may have been for some people, but not for her.
What could she do now?
How could she get out of this horrible mess she’d made?
Life was so complicated, so confusing, and she was all alone; how was she to find her way?
That night Livia dreamed she was in the biggest cathedral in the world, filled with thousands of elegantly dressed people, all standing and facing her, immobile and staring like inquisitors. She was poised at the entrance; before her loomed a wide marble aisle. Panic swamped her. It would take forever to walk along it, to reach her destination at the front, where someone was waiting for her: a man, dressed all in black. Who was it? She couldn’t tell from here. She only knew that she had to get to him, that her very life depended on it.
In her dream Livia put a foot forward and saw on it an extraordinary slipper made of transparent crystal. It fit her perfectly in a way she did not question in the least. Curious, she pulled back her heavy, jewel-encrusted gown to see what was on her other foot, and was horrified to see that it was bare.
All at once she felt a dreadful slithering sensation around her ankles. Something cold and clammy, and infinitely disgusting, was there, and frantically Livia clawed at the heavy folds of silk and damask, the sapphires and emeralds and diamonds glowing and sparkling and nearly blinding her. At last she pulled up her gown, wretchedly aware that everyone in the church could see what she was doing, and despising her for being such a disgrace, and then she realized that a snake—its coils as big around as her own wrist—was twisting around her feet, and it had tiny beady blue eyes and, horribly, a red human mouth, and it said, very distinctly, in the smooth, patronizing voice of Sir Edward Brinkley:
“And now I’m going to kiss the bride.”
Frozen like a little creature of prey, unable to move, Livia screamed.
And woke up, gasping, in the familiar dark quiet of her luxurious room in Upper Camden Place.
Madame Lévêque and her troop of assistants became once again a fixture in the house, with Livia restlessly enduring endless hours of fittings and adjustments. She noticed that Grandmama was less omnipresent than she had formerly been; Dr. Wendeburgen was more frequently in the house, dashing up and down the stairs with his jovial, self-important air—looking, Livia was perturbed to see, plumper, while Grandmama got even thinner.
“Oh, Miss Cott,” she confided during a brief private moment together, “I loathe that man!”
The older woman sighed. “Yes, so do I. It’s very unchristian of me, but I confess I share your feelings. I fear, however, there’s nothing to be done, for Mrs. Penhallow greatly values his advice. Come; it’s time to depart for the Pump Room. Mrs. Penhallow wishes to drink the waters.”
“Again? We were already there this morning.”
“Yes, again.”
Not long thereafter, Livia stood gloomily at the edges of a group of elderly ladies clustered around Grandmama, wishing heartily she were somewhere—anywhere!—else.
“Why, it’s dear little Livia!” gaily said an all too familiar voice, and feeling her jaw drop in astonishment, Livia turned quickly to see the Honorable Cecily Orr advancing upon her, gloriously pretty in a long-sleeved gown of the palest pink, lavishly trimmed with Van Dyke lace at the throat and cuffs. Her shining straw-colored locks were twisted up underneath a handsome Moorish bonnet in the latest mode and she carried a velvet reticule whose golden snap was shaped to look like an eagle’s head.